


Loyal To The End

by Johaerys



Series: You Always Hurt The Ones You Love: Hector x Carmilla [1]
Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), Vampire: The Masquerade, 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Light Bondage, Oral Sex, possibly dub con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 09:29:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20255905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johaerys/pseuds/Johaerys
Summary: She is magnificent, divine, eternal. He would be content, giving her what she wants for the rest of his life. A short life, insignificant compared to hers. He would be her servant, and her lover, too. Together they could fix this rotten world. They could make it a world worth living in.Just him, and her. Carmilla. His goddess and his muse.





	Loyal To The End

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a little writing experiment of an idea I have been entertaining for a while. In Vampire The Masquerade (the table top RPG), "Presence is the Discipline of supernatural allure and emotional manipulation which allows Kindred (i.e. vampires) to attract, sway, and control crowds". 
> 
> I hc that a vampire like Carmilla would have enough Presence to completely captivate another person. This is my take on what that might feel like for Hector. 
> 
> Dark themes explored. Possibly dub con. Read at your own discretion.

Not much makes sense to Hector these days.

He lives in Dracula’s castle as his general, advising him, raising his armies. Scores and scores of Hector’s creations are unleashed upon the world, mindlessly destroying everything in their path. Dracula sits on his throne, passively watching as demons paddle in the blood of children and the vampire lords squabble with each other. A man on the eve of his day.

Hector thought this would be a cull, a controlling of the population. Harsh, yes, but merciful. That’s what Dracula had offered him. A chance to bring about a new order in the world, make it clean, tidy, simple even. But this war is anything but that. And Hector cannot abide with it. He does not raise his creations just so that they can wreak havoc on the land. Hector is not a killer. He is not a destroyer. He is a forge master, a healer of sorts, a mender of all things broken by the world. 

The forge, he understands. It makes sense to him. He strikes his hammer once, twice, thrice, and he breathes life into things that lay waiting, unmoving. Their eyes open, their chest swells with new energy. Not many understand that. Humans have always thought him mad, a devil, a monster. Even the vampires shun him. All they care about is death and destruction. But Hector cares about life, life in its purest of forms. 

He has no friends in this vast castle. His only friends are his creations. They are loyal to him, in a way that another being could never be. The vampire lords are evil and petty, harsh and unforgiving. Half see him as livestock, the same as any other human, the other half as a mere inconvenience. They care not for the work he does, for his skill, for his contribution to that war. They look down on him and spit on his creations.

But not her. Not Carmilla.

She is a striking woman, cold and deadly. The other vampires fear or revere her, and for good reason. She is the only one amongst them bold enough to challenge Dracula himself. And she _sees_. She sees things in a way that no one else can. 

She sees _him_. 

She comes to his forge, inspects his work. She doesn’t look down on him, doesn’t disdain him like others do. She sees him for what he is; a valid member of that court, Dracula’s general, the master of the forge. She has kind words for him, words of praise and wonder. 

“Your skill is legendary” she says. Hector’s heart thrums in his chest.

Carmilla talks in a way that makes sense. Dracula cannot think straight any more. His grief and his hunger for vengeance have robbed him of his reason. He makes wrong decision after wrong decision, and they’re losing ground. “We should attack on Braila” Carmilla says, and Hector cannot deny her logic. She is the only one making sense in that world of darkness and despair. She whispers in his ear, and her voice is soft and soothing, like the night air stirring in the trees of his homeland.

“You must convince Dracula” she says. “He will listen to you.”

Hector’s lungs swell with pride. Finally, someone who acknowledges his position, someone who understands everything he has accomplished. He goes to speak with Dracula, but the man is not so easily swayed. Hector feels anger, hot and bubbling, rising to his throat and choking him. Dracula is not the giant he was but a year before. He is a puny little man, with a puny little heart, and he is wasting away.

Hector cannot live for the shame of failing in his task. He goes to Carmilla, his heart shaking in his ribcage. He cannot bear to displease her. He would endure a thousand lashings upon his back, and a thousand more, rather than lose her favour. 

She is in her room, the quivering firelight illuminating her form, reflecting in her golden neckpiece. Hector lowers his eyes. No man should ever have the right to behold anything so beautiful. He tells her of his failure. His voice falters, and his shoulders convulse. Her icy blue eyes can see right through him, and he is lost. 

Hector falls on hands and knees, crawls to her like a dog. He is a worm, unworthy of touching even the ground she treads upon, but she doesn’t stop him. She simply watches him, her face expressionless as he places hundreds of kisses on her shoes. He would kiss her feet a hundred times more, a thousand, a million, until his lips cracked, until his breath left him, if it meant being close to her. 

She steps away from him, lightly, carefully, with unbearable grace. “Get up” she commands, her voice hard and cold as ice. Hector obeys, scrambles to his feet. She fixes him with her gaze, and he flinches, as if he has looked directly at the sun. “Leave me. And don’t come back until Dracula is swayed.” 

The command rips his soul apart, but he obeys, turns to leave. 

“Hector” she says, and the fluttering in his chest is enough to make his head swim. She is ice and steel when he turns to look at her. “Do not disappoint me again.”

Hector would rather tear his own heart out than disappoint her.

Carmilla hasn’t sought his company in days. In Dracula’s court, she barely even glances at him. His heart aches with love and adoration for her. He tries not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he sees her, like the sun, even without looking. He cannot bear the thought of losing her. It would surely drive him mad, if she were to dismiss him.

Hector tries everything. The other vampires look at him as if he is barely more than shit on the soles of their shoes. He tries, again and again. Isaac finally believes him. He agrees to speak with Dracula and attempt to change his mind. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

He runs to Carmilla. He walks into her room, where she is sitting in her gilded armchair. He casts his eyes down, like he always does, falls on hands and knees before her, like he always does. Isaac has agreed, he tells her. 

“That’s good, Hector” she says softly, her voice like thunder in his ears, a roar, “but it’s not enough.”

Hector crawls to her. He kisses her velvet slippers, the floor beneath her feet. With a finger under his chin, light as a feather, she lifts his head up. He peers at her in all her splendour. This is no mere woman. She is beautiful, glorious, a queen on her throne. The smallest of smiles curls her crimson lips, and his heart almost leaps out of his chest.

“You can do better than that, my pet.”

Carefully, fingers trembling, he lifts the hem of her long skirt, exposing the velvet skin that’s hiding underneath. Pale, soft, cold to the touch, smooth like polished marble. Hector kisses the arches of her feet, her ankles, her sheens- every inch of her long, splendid legs. Every agonizing kiss he places on her skin is another stitch on his broken, war-torn heart, another small pledge of his soul to her. He would do anything for her. He wants to, needs to, has to-

He _has_ to please her. 

He pushes her skirt further up, up, until he can see the moisture shining there, in the slit between her legs. He glances up at her -unworthy, small, puny as he is- and sees her smiling face. A bid. An invitation. He hesitates only for a heartbeat before dipping his tongue into her wetness. And he sees the world in a thousand vibrant, swirling colours, warm and sunny as it should be.

Warmth. Love. Joy. Everything he needs. Everything he has been looking for.

He laps at her eagerly, with a hunger he never knew he had. Nothing in the world compares to this. The sweetness -oh, such sweetness-, sweeter than nectar, headier than ambrosia. It is life incarnate, and Hector cannot get enough.

He shivers as she lets him drink from her, as she moans and sighs with the pleasure that he’s giving her, as she shudders under his tongue, as she soars and blossoms, like a glorious sunset. He looks up at her, at the fire in her eyes and the blood-red of her lips. 

She caresses his cheek with one long fingernail. “Hector, you are a marvel.”

Hector knows he can now die a happy man.

Dracula finally agrees to attack on Braila. Finally, finally- Carmilla will be happy. All Hector wants is to make her happy. She summons him, and he flees to her. She greets him in a sheer white nightgown. She holds her head high, like the queen that she is. No; not a queen. No queen can match her in beauty or in grace. A _goddess_\- that’s what she is. She is a goddess, and Hector is bound to her. Her loyal subject. Loyal to the end. 

Hector averts his eyes; he is not worthy to look upon her. He is but an ant, a pebble, a blade of grass, and she is the sun and the wind. He prepares to fall to his knees, but she stops him.

“Come to me, Hector.”

He obeys, like always. He could never disobey her. She threads her long fingers in his hair, and he shivers. Her scent is sweet, sharp, intoxicating. How can all the other people in the world that lay eyes on her not fall down on their knees to worship her? Hector would make them, if she asked. He would make the entire world kneel before her, if she asked it of him. Anything for her. Anything for Carmilla.

Softly, gently, with infinite tenderness, she leads him to her bed. She unties the laces on his shirt. She works the latches of his breeches open. She takes his clothes off, peeling away every layer, until she leaves him standing naked before her, bare and exposed. Hector doesn’t care what she plans to do with him. He only wants to please her. He only exists to please her.

She ties his wrists to the gilded bedpost with silk ribbons, their softness hardly matching the softness of her skin. She pulls at the laces of her nightgown and it falls around her feet with a hiss. 

Tears pool at the corners of Hector’s eyes. He is in her bed. He. Hector. Shunned, reviled, unwanted Hector. In bed with a goddess. And she _wants_ him. What power could compare to this, what riches, what glory? He is unworthy of her affection, yet he accepts it eagerly, like parched earth begging for rain.

Carmilla climbs on the bed and kneels between his legs. Hector shudders when she takes his hardness in her mouth. He knows he cannot last long with her, he could never last as long as she wants him to, could never be good enough to match her, but she is slow, and thorough. She slides her lips smoothly along his shaft. Her cheeks hollow as she sucks him, pulling him deep inside her. Her blue eyes are on him, the fire in them hot and ravenous as she watches him come undone with every swirl of her clever tongue. Just when he thinks he is about to unravel in her hands, she releases his cock from her mouth with a loud, wet pop, making his eyes roll back in his skull. She runs her tongue over his length, caresses his thighs, leads him closer and closer to the edge.

Hector squirms and trembles with her touch. He can’t bear the pleasure, the exquisite pleasure that she gives him. Surely, nothing can be better than this. Surely, that’s what the peak of life feels like. 

Carmilla lifts herself up and straddles him.

She hovers above him, tall and regal. Her luminous hair cascades down her back and over her perfect breasts, almost white in the faint light of the candles. It glimmers like a halo around her face. The face of a goddess. 

Tears stream freely down Hector’s cheeks as she guides him into her velvet heat. There is pure love, pure joy, pure life, there, in the warmth between her legs. He struggles against his bindings, longing to touch her, to feel the smoothness of her skin, but she has tied him well and fast. She peers straight into him, piercing him right to his very core. She rocks smoothly on top of him, like the sea, like the waves, taking him deeper and deeper, faster and faster. Her lips are the colour of blood, dark and crimson. Her long nails leave angry, red welts on his chest as she chases her finish, but he doesn’t care. He would readily take anything she gave him, whether it was pain or pleasure, life or death.

She keens and laughs as her orgasm rolls over her. Hector follows her over the edge, spilling helplessly inside her. He is still shuddering, calling out her name, when she gets off him and laps at the seed that is still pouring from his cock. She smiles -oh, so sweetly, terribly- as she drinks down every last drop of him.

She is magnificent, divine, eternal. He would be content giving her what she wants for the rest of his life. A short life, insignificant compared to hers. He would be her servant, and her lover, too. Together, they could fix this rotten world. They could make it a world worth living in. 

Just him, and her. Carmilla. His goddess and his muse.

Dracula is gone. Everything is gone, the war is lost, and Hector can only watch as the world falls into ruin around him.

Carmilla is there, too. Angry, dark and menacing. Thunder, lightning and heavy rainclouds trapped in a woman’s body. She screams when her plans are ruined, scowls when the soldiers Hector forged for her are swallowed by the rushing river. Her eyes when she fixes them on him are sharper than steel, harder than stone, hotter than fire.

“You are mine now, forgemaster. You have nothing left but me.”

Once, he would have been overjoyed to hear that. Once. Before everything turned to ash and rotting bones. Before he found out that his involvement in her plans might as well have doomed the world to irreparable destruction.

His forge. His work. His creations. These are the only things that make sense to him. The only things that ever made sense to him. Even now, perhaps especially now, these are the things he is longing for.

Carmilla fastens the collar around his neck, as if he were livestock, property. She slaps him hard across the face, and the pain blinds him, and he can taste blood on his tongue, but he can do nothing to oppose her.

He is bound to her. Her loyal subject. Loyal to the end.

**Author's Note:**

> "He tries not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he sees her, like the sun, even without looking." <-- a quote from Leo Tolstoy's _Anna Karenina_ that I love and thought would go really well here.
> 
> I am [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi :3
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! xoxo


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